To stand alone on the Atlantic shore
And breathe in deep the misty salted air,
To hear again the waves familiar roar,
The spray on ruddy cheeks, the ruffled hair—
But I’ll go down to breathe the sea no more.
To sit beneath a mountain ash in June,
The smell of flowing meadows on the breeze,
The corncrake and the cuckoo sing their tune,
The droning hum of busy honey bees—
But summer turns to winter oh so soon!
The crunch of crispy grass beneath my shoe,
My breath turned into fog by winter chill;
It’s silent now and signs of life are few,
The leafless barren boughs are deathly still
Awaiting spring to breathe in life anew.
These days my breathing’s laboured—I’ve grown old
And oftentimes I am confined inside,
When pollen count is high or weather’s cold—
What is best for me, others now decide,
But I return within to days of old.
But now a nearer shore is calling me,
The day of His appearing coming fast;
I know the Lord of Glory I’ll soon see
When snatched away or when I breathe my last—
Maranatha! Come Lord Jesus! Let it be!
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